


Antidote

by TheCityLightShow



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Miscellaneous Canon, Pre-Reichenbach, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-10-23 23:53:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17693576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCityLightShow/pseuds/TheCityLightShow
Summary: Everything has the ability to be poisonous,John thought, idly examining the man sat peering into his microscope in the kitchen.Just a little something I wrote back when I foolishly believed I could write 31 drabbles in 31 days for October.





	Antidote

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuses. I introduced a uni friend the BBC Sherlock because somehow she'd never seen it, and discovered that like, woah, I really shipped these two.

 

 _Everything has the ability to be poisonous,_ John thought, idly examining the man sat peering into his microscope in the kitchen. Sherlock cut quite the figure sat there, poised and steady, each movement made with purpose. John turns back to his laptop, where _The Poisoner’s Wife_ is sat in front of him, and proving a struggle to type up. He thinks back on the last few days of the case, and wonders if Sherlock truly couldn’t have solved this one without him. The man has an extensive catalogue of knowledge – if Sherlock is a man to have a _raison d’etre,_ it’s the accumulation of knowledge – but he’d said, not twelve hours ago, “what would I do without you Dr Watson?”

 

John had replied, straight-faced, “perish, probably,” and earned a laugh and an eye-roll in return – but the words had stuck with him. _Everything has the ability to poisonous,_ he’s written, _if it is not where it is meant to be._ He’s intending to talk about oxygen toxicity and metal poisoning, and other easy examples, but right now, in the comfort of his own mind, John can’t help but think of his flatmate. John wonders if Sherlock would agree with John’s definition of poisons. Even as a medical man, evading the trick question of _name something that is not a poison_ knowing the answer is nothing, he can’t help the little philosophical wanderings.

 

A lot of people spit venom at Sherlock, because he’s smarter and intimidating, something that they don’t understand. Some would, perhaps, call him poison – he’s not a friendly man, abrasive and sarcastic, seemingly uncaring… but he’s right where he’s meant to be, every step of the way.

 

John glances up at him again in time to see his brow furrow, in the same way it does when he has to ask John _sentiment?_ It’s not disgust, not quite, but it’s definitely confusion. Mycroft would call sentiment a poison in this context, undoubtedly – he might even refer to it so in his little brother, but John knows he’d be wrong. John’s still staring at Sherlock when the man himself looks up – and smiles. Warmly. He’s pushing himself back from the table as John smiles back and then again, for the umpteenth time, attempts to write up their latest case.

_Would they call me poison?_ John thinks and the thought alarms him a little, typing stuttering to a halt. The little line blinks on the screen. Maybe it alarms him more than a little – he’s a murderer in some respects, after all. He believes he does it the right way, if there is a right way to do such a thing… He shot the cabbie. He probably saved Sherlock’s life to do it, but everything else. Is he right, to stay? When Sherlock doesn’t have friends, doesn’t need them, barely wants them on days ending in y… God, the detective probably views him as nothing more than a _distraction_ -

 

Tea.

 

John watches as Sherlock places a mug of tea down beside him – black, no sugar, exactly as John likes it. Steam curls lazily upward but John just knows it’s going to be the perfect temperature. He looks up to find Sherlock smiling at him, a small genuine thing that John’s fairly certain Sherlock has never directed at anyone else. The smile remains as he glances over what John’s already written up, though he seems to come to some form of realisation.

 

“You’re not poison, John.” He murmurs, and leans over to- _oh_. He presses the lightest little kiss to John’s forehead. “You’re an antidote,” and then like he hasn’t completely re-orientated John’s world in the space of a moment, he returns to his microscope. John manfully resists the urge to brush his fingers over the spot on his forehead, but he can’t stop his grin and he can’t look away.

_I’m exactly where I’m meant to be_ , John thinks.

**Author's Note:**

> I used to write BBC Sherlock fic, and maybe even RDJ!Sherlock fic, but like... I shared it a grand total of once, and I thought I'd never do it again. Will wonders never cease. 
> 
> Come drop me a line! Comments are cool, and I'm still on the hellsite fantasia that is **[tumblr](http://thecitylightshow.tumblr.com/)** , and you can totally just come yell at me (kindly) about these idiots.


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